The Thesis of Us
by iizninja
Summary: If Puck was going through an existential crisis (and he isn't, so shut up), he wouldn't tell anyone that. First, because "existential" isn't in his vocabulary. Second, because talking about your problems makes it harder to pretend that they don't exist. One-shot.


**A/N: I love summer! Actually, I just love sleeping late, pigging out, avoiding responsibility, and being on fanfiction. (Can I get an Amen?!) Summer lets me do all of those things! Yay!**

 **This fic is my attempt to have a third person writing style that feels as character stream-of-consciousness as first person.  
The scenes are divided by lines but there are no POV switches. It's Puck all the way through. Mind the rating and the genre, and I hope you enjoy this!**

 _ **Disclaimer: I do not own the Sisters Grimm. I do, however, own a music box that plays Uptown Funk when you open it. So I've got that going for me, which is nice.**_

* * *

It's really rather embarrassing, and Puck would really rather not talk about it.

Really.

Because he can very clearly see that conversation speeding towards 'awkward' at a thousand miles an hour, and he's ruined his self-esteem quite enough for one day, thank-you-very-much, so it'll be better if he just digs himself a hole and dies in it.

"What did you just say?" Sabrina's blue eyes are sharper than steel. The bun tying her hair back droops limply to the side of her chin, and her black-rimmed glasses are balancing precariously at the edge of her nose. The glasses are new – new to him, at least – but he likes the way they make her look.

Her right hand has stilled its feverish pen movements, and her entire body has stiffened. It's been a long time since Sabrina has devoted all of her dangerous attention to him. The feeling is simultaneously arousing and threatening…. At the moment, definitely more threatening.

Puck forcefully clears his throat, thumping a fist on his chest as if the words are stuck in his lungs. "I said…" he tries to speak with some sort of authority, but loses his nerve when she straightens up from leaning over the desk to look at him more directly. "I said… I think you heard what I said," he finishes weakly.

Sabrina slips off her glasses, quietly folding them and placing them on the table in one smooth motion before rolling her shoulders back. It's then that he sees the dark circles under her eyes and the little vein that's appeared on the side of her forehead.

She's probably sleeping as little as Puck is, nowadays.

"Say it again," she says. Her arms cross. "I want to make sure I heard you correctly, _Sire_."

Puck scowls. Everything is always so _difficult_ with her. He starts to pace in front of the cherry oak desk, arms clasped behind his back as regally as possible. He can feel her eyes on him every step he takes.

"Well, I need you to compile a list."

"A list of?" There it is. That blond eyebrow quirking up ever so slightly, making his stomach flip and flop like he's still an eleven year old boy.

"A list of… " Puck pauses again. "Eligible young women?" Why is he saying it like it's a question? It's not a question. Is it?

"Eligible in what way, Sire?"

Oh dear gods. She's actually going to make him _say_ it, isn't she? He stops pacing. Suddenly his mouth is full of powder. "Eligible for me."

Of course Sabrina's face doesn't register understanding or confusion. Nor does it reveal any intent to beat him over the head with the thickest book in his study, but he gets the feeling that's where she's most inclined at the moment.

"Eligible to… you know…" He flaps his hand around helplessly. "To marry."

And then, silence.

And yes, it _is_ just as awkward as he thought it would be.

Sabrina's chin lifts so slightly it's almost imperceptible, but her eyes are clearly saying 'this is the part of the conversation where you apologize for saying something stupid, promise never to have an idea again, and then march your royal butt back to your room.'

He almost takes her up on that implicit offer.

Instead, he tries to ease the tension in the room by clearing his throat, adding, "If it isn't too much to ask."

It's times like these that Puck _really_ regrets letting Sabrina work for him. There were plenty of lawyers out there to take care of all the boring paperwork that comes with running a kingdom successfully. If Sabrina weren't so darn good at the job, he'd have fired her two years ago when he still had the chance. But the only complaint he could file now was that she made it really hard to concentrate in meetings when she wore her hair down. It was also hard to concentrate when she smelled like lavender (which was just about always because stupid Mustardseed and his stupid chivalrous birthday gifts). Also, when she chewed on her pen. Or when the space between her eyebrows buckled up as she thought through a problem. Or…

Basically, whenever she's in the room, his attention is divided.

He's grateful for her, though. Being king of Faerie is often too much to handle. He wouldn't still be ruling if it weren't for Sabrina at his side, even if they're only together as friends.

Well. Maybe they aren't even that.

"Oh? That's funny. Because the first time you said it, it sounded a lot more like 'I need you to find me a wife.'" She slams the notebook she was writing in shut, and the thud travels through the ornate table. "May I ask why, all of a sudden, you want to get married?"

He shrugs slightly, pulling a heavy chair out from under the front of the table. "It's not really all of a sudden. The old queen did just die, after all." He plops himself down in the seat, sucking in a deep breath. The room smells like the old books that line the walls– like leather, worn pages and ink. He can feel the scent making the air heavy, and every breath seems to stick to his lungs. Sabrina always says she loves the smell of books. Puck finds that it gives him a terrible headache.

Sabrina winces. "I'm sorry. I know your mother's passing must be difficult for you."

He hums noncommittally. There was a time when he would've been able to talk to Sabrina about everything that he felt. When he was comfortable enough with her to lay out his heart and expose a part of him that no one else in the world would ever see. But he hadn't felt that close to her in years. Not since he disappeared, then crashed her wedding, then disappeared _again_.

Yeah. That was a jerk move. He _knows_.

Admittedly, when she came barging into his courtroom two years ago, he never expected her to forgive him – especially when he'd left her _twice_. She promised that she put the past behind her, but Puck was never certain. And, of course, if she wanted to distance herself emotionally from him, he could understand that.

But when she'd caught him crying this morning – sobbing, really, into one of his mother's old dresses like a small child – she'd only put a hand on his shoulder and told him that he had five minutes before the funeral service started, then she turned and walked out of the room. She knows how much his mother meant to him, and all she could say was "it must be difficult for you." It's _that_ coldness makes him wonder if they can ever really be close again.

"I just figured," he says, tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair, "that it would be nice for the people to know that I have someone… advising me. Maybe it'd put their minds at ease."

"I'm advising you." Sabrina says the words so quickly that he looks up at her in surprise. "I mean," she amends, "it's been awhile since your mother was in sound enough mind to help you run the kingdom. Surely they know you're capable of ruling alone." She walks closer to where he's plopped himself and rests her hand on the table, leaning her hip against it.

He moves forward in his chair, resting his hand over one of hers. "Trust me," he says, looking into her eyes, "the only reason the people haven't tried to revolt against me is because they know Sabrina Grimm is overseeing everything."

She glances at his hand, eyes unreadable. Puck guesses that she wants him to stop touching her.

He doesn't.

To his credit, she doesn't move her hand away either.

"But I'm not enough for you, am I Puck?" She studies him carefully, her gaze traveling across his face.

"That's not true," he says back, too emphatically, tightening his hand over hers.

"Yeah, it is." She scoffs, looking away from him. "You never know what you want, but you've made it abundantly clear that I'm not it." She does pull her hand away then. Holds it to her stomach like he's burned her.

"No! It's just-"

"Your list will be on your desk first thing Monday morning."

Ever-flexible Puck, foot perpetually in mouth, sits dejected and frumpled in his chair like the loser his father always told him he was, and he lets Sabrina walk out. Because he's equal parts unworthy of holding her back and afraid of keeping her down. It's better for her if he moves on. Everything he touches turns to ash, and he's burned Sabrina enough for one lifetime.

* * *

When he gets the stack of files on his desk, they're delivered by a mousey looking girl with auburn hair, big brown eyes, and a voice so quiet Puck is tempted to point a remote at her and turn the volume up. She smiles skittishly at him with a few "sires" and a few more "your majesty's," then slams the three-foot stack down with enough tenacity to help Puck understand why she's lasted more than two days working for Sabrina.

But he sort of just lets the papers _sit_ there on the edge of his desk as he works through the status reports on the project Sabrina initiated to rebuild Faerie, the petitions that seem to never stop coming in from dissatisfied citizens, the unfinished business his mother left before her passing, and a jar of cinnamon candies he keeps on his desk.

It's not that he's putting off the decision or anything. He's just got more pressing matters to attend to. Like… how many brands of whiskey should be served at the Golden Egg. See? Important.

Halfway through the day, the door to his office opens on its own. Puck doesn't bother to look up when he hears the hinges squeak. He only knows of two people brave enough to enter his space unannounced, and he knows that one of those people is probably not speaking to him, so he simply pops another candy in his mouth, squints at his Parliament's spending records and says:

"Hey bro."

Mustardseed drops himself into the seat in front of Puck with one of his light and airy sighs, but then he's oddly silent. For a moment, Puck considers letting the quiet drag on as he pretends to understand what he's reading, but his brother has more patience than a rock, and whatever Mustardseed wants might be important.

So instead, Puck prods, "What can the king of the world ruin for you today?"

As he's saying it, he looks up at his brother and immediately wishes that the words hadn't left his mouth. Mustardseed looks like hell. His long blond hair is pulled back into a ponytail, flyaways like daggers around his face, his eyes are bloodshot, bagged, and his skin is even paler than usual. It looks like Mustardseed just stood in for Atlas by carrying the entire world on his shoulders, and it looks like he was crushed under the weight.

Puck drops the paper, lets it flutter to the desk. "Gods…"

"Stop," Mustardseed says, throwing up his hand. "I came in here to get away from people busying themselves over me. So, if you could please continue to be your usual obnoxious self, I could find it in my heart to appreciate it just this once."

Puck swallows the worried words that almost fall out of his mouth, instead biting the inside of his cheek. "I'm not obnoxious. I literally just took a shower this morning."

Somehow, Mustardseed smiles a bit at his bad joke. "It's good to know that the sole ruler of Faerie doesn't know the difference between noxious and obnoxious." There's a pause as Mustardseed eyes the stack looming on the side of Puck's desk. "Perhaps not the sole ruler for very long though…"

Puck and his brother deal with grief in very different ways. Puck is emotional - first he's angry where no one can see, then he cries where no one can see, then he laughs loudly and jokes crudely to throw everyone off on how he's crippled with depression and how he has, on more than one occasion, considered calling Moth to make him a special glass of wine. Mustardseed, on the other hand, does a poor job of hiding his emotions. And yet, he has the uncanny ability to eventually move past them.

It's the sucks-at-concealment thing that makes it so obvious what brother-dearest thinks of Puck's plan. Puck throws his hands up in defeat before Mustardseed can voice his objections. "I know, I _know_ , this is all so messed up. But you heard Parliament. My hands are _literally_ tied."

Mustardseed should give classes on eye rolling. "I'm looking at them, and no."

"Besides," Puck continues as if speaking louder will stop his brother's snark, "you were one of the very many people who told me to get the hell married already. Remember that? You were on about tradition and what Faerie needs and what our parents would want-"

"When I told you to 'get the hell married already' I honestly didn't think it would be that hard." Mustardseed has a really posh way of talking. It's starting to piss Puck off.

"Marriage is a big deal," Puck grinds out.

"Which is why you need to marry the right person. _That_ isn't a big deal. Not for you anyway."

Puck gesticulates helplessly to the stack. "Two-hundred eligible women!"

"You-"

"Two-hundred!" Puck repeats.

A sigh. "That's-"

"E-li-gi-ble," Puck sounds out the word, tapping the stack with each syllable.

Mustardseed rubs at his temples a bit, groaning. "Gods you're an idiot. You've gone and made my headache worse."

Puck tries not to suck at his lip – bad habit – and instead grabs another candy. "I'm trying to figure all of _this_ ," he gestures vaguely to everything in the room, "out. Okay? Cut me some slack."

"If you really don't know who it is you should marry, I doubt anything I say will help much. As for the rest of it…" Mustardseed pushes a hand through his hair in the way that Puck has heard giggling girls refer to as "the smolder," and the younger fairy shrugs. "I suppose I mean to say, you don't have to do this alone. I'm your family. You can talk to me."

"We are talking," ever-obstinate Puck responds.

"We never talk, brother. Not genuinely. As worried as you want to be for me, know that I'm ten times as worried about you. Talk to someone, Puck. Anyone. If you keep all of this bottled up-"

Puck's fist slams on his desk so hard and suddenly that Mustardseed flinches back.

He doesn't know where the surge of anger comes from, and his impulsivity scares him as much as it scarred Mustardseed.

Puck sucks in a deep breath, calming himself down a bit. "I don't have anything bottled up." The words are gravel in his mouth, like he can't properly speak the lie.

Maybe his nose will grow one of these days.

Mustardseed doesn't say anything for a long time. He just stares, those lightning blue eyes colder than Sabrina's but just as piercing. Puck can read his brother's thoughts as they broadcast on his face, and frankly he doesn't like what he sees. The older fairy looks away to dumbly play with a pen he just sent rolling across his desk.

Mustardseed leans forward, tapping one of his elegant fingers to the stack of files. "You and I both know you're looking for a wife in the wrong place."

Then he's up, long legs sauntering out of the room, shirt loose on his too-thin shoulders as he closes the door behind him. Puck resents his brother for reasons too abstruse to say.

Yeah. He knows who Mustardseed thinks he should marry. All of Faerie knows who Puck should marry. Hell, it wouldn't surprise him if the whole world new too.

But he can't ask Sabrina for her hand, because he loves her so much that it physically hurts him. He can't ask because, with all the crap he's put her through, she miraculously still loves him back. He can't ask because she'll say yes, and he won't deserve that. He can't ask because, if they get married, he's going to ruin her. And he can't explain all of this to anyone because they'll tell him he's being stupid. That Sabrina's a grown woman who can decide what's right for her and what isn't. Puck knows that.

He also knows he won't forgive himself if he hurts her again.

And he _really_ sucks at not hurting her.

So he goes through the stack of women without looking at the pictures, because he's not looking for a model, just a well-bred girl he can present to his people as queen material. In the end, he surprises himself by picking a few names.

Suddenly, the wedding march sounds a lot more real to him.

* * *

It's probably a mind game.

Eight years off at some fancy human school getting a degree in law, and suddenly Sabrina thinks she's freakin' Sigmund Freud. It's all "you looked to the left, so that means you're lying" or "I could see your toe tapping, that means you have a fear of miniature horses" or "you kinda hesitated on that word and then you scratched your left ear so you obviously want to hang yourself like your crazy mother did." By the end, she can get a person so twisted up in their mind that they end up complying to her will before they know what hit them.

He's a king, for the gods' sakes, and every day Sabrina manages to make him feel like a fool.

So, yes. Puck _really_ hates playing her mind games.

Still.

He's not about to _lose_ to her again either.

That's why when she asks if he'd like her to sit with him during the wife-interview process, he hesitates far too long, face pinched like he's sucking on a sour lemon.

This inveterate spirit of competition is going to ruin his life, isn't it?

She snaps her fingers in front of his face. "Earth to fairy-boy." There's something that warms up inside of Puck's chest whenever she uses one of her old pet names for him. (Some say pet names, some say insults. Whatever. He's never claimed that he isn't a masochist.)

For some reason, Sabrina is perched on her desk, sitting composed and collected with her hair in a high knot. Her plain fingernails are tapping a tattoo on the edge of the linoleum surface. It's probably the fact that she's comfortable in her office that lets her act so nonchalant around him right now. For his part, he's wound tighter than a mongoose on Red Bull. It's like he's been rubbing himself on wool for two weeks, and is now about to touch a car door. He's charged, electric, wired.

And, for the record, he hates her office. Some idiot put up paintings of Faerie's old monarchs on the left wall, and Puck can feel his dead father's eyes boring into him as his knee impulsively bounces from nerves. Puck isn't twelve anymore and Oberon's been dead for years, so seeing his father shouldn't bother him. But as the saying goes, old habits die hard.

He pushes out a shaky sigh.

"I don't know, Grimm. Do you want to sit through the interviews with me?"

For a split-second, Sabrina flashes him an emotion of discomfort - or sadness or pain or something else - but before he can decipher the look she buries it under the carefully composed mask that she's spent so many years perfecting.

"I want to support you as I'm supposed to. I can advise you just as well by being in the interview process as by being a bystander."

He quirks an eyebrow at her, stilling his leg. "In that case, you wanna interview them for me?"

She smirks at him. "Are you seriously high enough to ask me that question, Your Highness?"

"I'm not high," he says, a flirting smile slipping on his lips before he can stop it. "But we'll be interviewing women for the next three months, so maybe I should be."

Sabrina shakes her head at him. "I just don't understand. If you don't want to get married… why are you?"

Damn.

She _would_. She _would_ ask the one question that gets under his skin in ways that it really shouldn't. He's spent the last few weeks desperately trying not to think about the answer to those words, and he hates it that she can just _bring it up_ so nonchalantly! The audacity- the _nerve_ of this girl…

He stops himself. There's no reason for him to get upset - he _isn't_ upset, just disturbed a bit and anxious if he's being honest - but his jaw clenches and unclenches. His fists ball up and he forces them to relax. Puck's heart rate starts to pick up like his body knows he's lying before he's said anything.

He breaks eye contact with her, catching himself before he looks tellingly at the painting of Oberon and instead training his eyes on the hardwood floor. His fingers pull at the stupid tie she made him wear. It's constricting his throat. He tied it too tight and it's uncomfortable, but he's tugging and it isn't coming loose, it just feels tighter.

"You know why I'm getting married." His voice sounds distant. "Parliament-"

"All due respect, Sire, you've never given a rat's ass what Parliament has to say about what you do with your life, so don't pull that crap now."

It's her tone, it's gotta be her tone, that's what raises his blood pressure, makes his heart actually start to _pound_ , heavy and hard like a rock tossed in his chest. She can't get away with speaking to him like that (except for the fact that she _can_ because she's Sabrina). It pisses him off. He can feel the blood rush to his face as his breath gets shallower and shallower. He doesn't even know why he's angry, just that he undeniably _is_.

He scowls, more at himself than at her. The tie is seriously closing up his throat. He works at it with his fingers, but his hands are sweaty and shaky and the knot won't come loose. It's the air. The air is too warm in her office. He feels claustrophobic, like the walls are moving closer together. Oberon is much larger in his peripheral now, all scows and disappointment and - hell, this _damned neck tie_. He yanks at it again, and somehow the thing slips off this time, so he flings it to the ground, popping a button on his collar to breathe.

It doesn't help.

"Well." His mouth is dry. "The kingdom needs-"

"-Nothing." Her voice is gentle, like she sees his distress but decides not to let up just yet. "The kingdom is fine, and it will be fine."

That's why Sabrina's a lawyer - and a good one too - because she won't stop until she pulls the truth out of you. Her small arms cross over her chest, her gaze is burning his face wherever it lands. He feels like she's menacing, sitting there so calmly, watching him get worked up over nothing. And when she says, "Strike two," it feels like she's taunting him. Maybe his face revealed everything already, just like Mustardseed's. Maybe she knows what he's thinking, and just enjoys watching him fall apart.

He can't explain why, but all of a sudden he loses it.

Puck stands up abruptly, knocking his chair back with a clatter, making Sabrina jump as he starts pacing. His hands are furiously raking through his hair, screwing up the style it had been gelled into. Gods, it suddenly got a lot hotter in this room, right? He's wrinkling his button-up as he paws it away from his sweaty torso, clawing at the buttons on his shirt for a way to cool down. He's trying to breathe through his nose, but he can't. The sound it makes is hissing and gasping.

He swallows. Hard. "You already know why, right?" He's raising his voice at her for no reason. Nothing's wrong. He needs to calm down, why can't he _calm down_? "So then don't ask me why." He's breathless. All of a sudden his lungs are trying to suck in air faster than he can push it out. His head and the room are spinning in opposite directions. He keeps pacing, but his knees are weak. Two words flash in his mind and he latches on to them.

 _Panic attack._

He's having a panic attack.

He's so pathetic. He really couldn't make it through Titania's death without breaking, could he?

Sabrina's voice is tense. "Puck-"

"Everything is always a… a _thing_ with you. I can't just _do_ something, there's always gotta be a _reason_."

"Puck, please, I think you're-"

"Maybe there is a reason, though." He's not thinking straight anymore. His mouth is moving on its own, and his words are a mile a minute. "Maybe there's more than one. Maybe I have to get married because I'm 4,025 years old and I don't know where my life went, or where it's going, or what the point of living even _is_ anymore."

He can only stand to look back at her for one second, because Sabrina's looking at him with the saddest eyes he's ever seen, and that look isn't helping anything.

"Maybe it's because both of my parents thought marriage would make me happy, and now they're both dead, and I'm not happy, Sabrina. I'm not happy."

The next breath he tries to take mutates into a wretch, a sob. His pacing jerks to a halt. "So maybe they were right. Maybe I just need to marry and it'll fix things - fix _me_. Or maybe I can't be happy."

His entire body feels like static on an old T.V.. He's shaking. His vision is blurring with tears.

"Maybe it's because I can't keep living like this, so something has to change. Maybe…" he's crying again. How many times is he going to cry in front of this girl? "Maybe I'm realizing that marriage isn't any scarier than being alone all the time. Maybe I'm afraid of failing my people and my parents and Faerie and Whatever made me this useless _thing_!"

He hits the floor because he can't stand anymore, and the wood is cold through the fabric on his knees. He feels one hand clamp on his bicep so hard it's already a bruise. He feels another hand on his cheek, brushing away his tears, stroking his face just like his mother used to do.

"Breathe, Puck."

He's trying.

"I'm here, it's okay. Just breathe."

"I killed my mother." It chokes its way out of him; that deep seated fear he's been too afraid to even think.

" _No_." The word is sharp enough to make him take one good breath. "No, Puck, she killed herself."

"She did it because of me. She's dead because of me, my father's dead because of me, Faerie's dying because of me. I'm..." he loses his momentum. "I'm a disaster."

"You aren't, Puck. I… that's just not true. None of it. You're a lot of people's saving grace. Hell, you're the reason I'm still alive today."

 _But I'm going to kill you too, aren't I? I almost did once, at the water tower. I think about that a lot. I think it's foreshadowing. The thesis of my life. The thesis of us._

He's shaking as he buries himself into the shoulder in front of him, shaking as he wraps his arms around the warm torso. He smells lavender, and it calms him. The air gets cooler and somehow his head is slowly starting to clear. Like he just needed another person to talk to, like he let out all of the pressure inside of him to the one person he needs the most.

Mustardseed was right.

 _That prick_.

"You idiot," Sabrina whispers, her voice tight like she's trying not to cry. "You royal idiot. I'll never be able to leave you alone, will I?"

Sabrina's fingers run across the nape of his neck. They stay like that long-after he stops crying.

* * *

He decides to interview the girls with Sabrina in the room.

Not that he's afraid of another panic attack or anything – honestly, someone should have told him that a mental breakdown is a great way to get things out in the open because he finally has days that he thinks _maybe_ he can be something _good_. It's just that things have been awkward between Sabrina and him for so long, and now they've come to a silent agreement that whatever went amiss the first time he left her has been fixed.

Forgiven. Probably not forgotten, but they've moved past it and it's safe to be around her again.

Well, it's more than safe. It's _fun_.

'Cause before, they'd banter and sass in some sick mockery of how things used to be. A joke would cut deeper than it probably should have, jovial laughs turned stale with malice - they were a mess.

Now, even though they're still plenty screwed up, it's like they were friends again. And he likes being friends with Sabrina. He's _always_ liked being friends with her. She's his favorite person to be around, and now that he can be around her without hating himself, the two have been constant company.

So, over the course of three months, Puck makes it through all thirty interviews with all thirty "nice girls" whose fathers have enough money to tack the title of "princess" onto her name. Correction: Sabrina gets him through them all. She asks the questions he doesn't think to ask, she points out the positives and negatives alike, she is completely professional, and a constant breath of fresh-air.

Puck, all incompetence and shrugs, once again realizes how indispensable she is. As often as he's on about saving her life, she's saved his more times than he can count.

The room they're set up in is nice enough. Some ornate, foreign rug is splayed across the floor, dulling the many clicks of too-high heels puncturing it these last few months. The walls have landscape paintings hanging on them, which is a nice change from books and dead faces that constantly stare. The interview table is black wood – Puck's personal favorite, 'cause it makes him feel classy, official, whatever he isn't – and the rolling chairs pass for professional when he isn't trying to do laps around the long table between meetings. He tells himself that, as annoying as this whole business has been, it hasn't been _painful_. Still, he's glad it's over.

The last girl closes the door to the interview room and Sabrina slumps in her chair, toeing off her heels and grabbing one of the muffins put out for the guests.

"This is my fourth muffin today," she says, somewhat to herself, picking off the paper cup wrapping the bottom. "I'm gonna get fat."

Puck hums, nodding in agreement. His mouth pulls into that wide smile it can't help but make when she's around.

She clicks her tongue at him in irritation. "Rude."

He points at himself. "King, remember? Rude is my prerogative." She rolls her eyes, breaking off a piece of the baked good and popping it into her mouth, sighing as she chews. Blueberry muffins are, apparently, Sabrina's weakness.

He reaches for a muffin himself – Puck is worried about many things, but getting fat isn't one of them – and he's quite ready to enjoy a celebratory snack when Sabrina's hand comes out of nowhere, twisting his wrist and sending the muffin toppling down to the rug with a disappointing _splat_.

He gapes, first at the wasted pastry, then at Sabrina, who has this smug smile dancing on her lips as she spins, contented in her swivel-chair after her act of revenge.

Puck points at the fallen. "Isn't that treason? I'm pretty sure that's treason."

She shrugs her shoulders, eyes glittering. "Retribution."

" _Gesundheit_."

His arms are long enough for him to pick up the offended muffin without standing up, and she doesn't bother telling him not to eat off the floor.

She laughs at him, with him, and it's hard for him not to get lost in that sound. Hard not to get lost in how her chin tucks into her body when she laughs making it gurgle, or how her eyes crinkle up a bit. Her hair isn't pinned up today, instead it's all pushed to one side. She's getting crumbs all over her suit jacket, there's a run in her stockings, her lipstick has faded everywhere but the very edges of her mouth, and he's made her laugh to tears enough times to make her mascara smudge a little. She's basically glowing.

Every time she swivels her chair around he smells that damned again lavender, and he's unabashedly euphoric about everything. He wants to be closer to her, he wants to be in the unique position of legally getting to play with sleeves of her jackets or getting to trail kisses across her shoulders. He's a hopeless romantic. He's totally in love.

Gods. His thirteen year-old self would be so disappointed.

Sabrina pops another big chunk of muffin in her mouth, straightening herself up. "So," she says, mouth half-full, "what did you think of her?"

"Of who?"

"Of Vivian, you dolt." Her insults have started to sound warm again, like they used to a few years ago. Like they used to after he'd kiss her. He can't kiss her now, but he wants to. It's not fair how _not_ over her he is. It's even more not fair how _so_ over _him_ she seems to be.

He lets his head fall to the back of his chair, stretching his neck and drawing in air. "Well… she was… all right?"

"Wow, I can hear the wedding bells now."

He smiles, closing his eyes. "She was just as boring as all the other women we had come through. She didn't feel like anything special."

He hears Sabrina shuffle some papers. "What about that one from a few weeks ago? Margret. We liked her."

"She the one who studied toe fungus for a living?"

"It wasn't a living, it was a… hobby?"

"Yes, right, that makes it so much better."

Sabrina laughs at that, then there's the sound of more papers moving. "Well, we have to narrow this list down somehow. What do you see in any of these girls that would make you want to marry her?"

There's something quiet and earnest in Sabrina's voice when she says that. It's so subtle, nearly imperceptible, but the moment he picks up on it there's a charge that races across his skin. Puck opens his eyes to look at her and finds her staring back at him. Their eyes meet, and for too long neither of them look away. It's criminal how caught he is by her gaze.

Full-on eye contact is the most erotic thing they've done in years, and even that feels like it's going to put him in a hospital. He's such a sap. He should quit being king and just be a maple tree.

She drops her gaze back to the papers, but there's a blush on her cheeks and she won't look back up at him no matter how long he stares.

Right. _Right_. She is still in love with him, as well as she hides it. And, try as he might to refute it, he's still hopelessly in love with her.

His eyes drift to Sabrina's small fingers holding his potential wife in hand. This whole thing is starting to feel stupid the longer he draws it out. Mustardseed was right ( _again_ , a- _freaking_ -gain, that bastard). The idea of marriage scares him out of his mind, but it's all less scary when it's Sabrina. Maybe he was wrong, maybe holding her at arm's length isn't actually protecting her. Through all of this, he never once considered that being so afraid of hurting her was the thing that hurt her the most.

Maybe, just maybe, the two of them can be happy.

It's rare that he takes world-shattering epiphanies in stride, but this one gives Puck an idea. Granted, the idea is probably a bad one. And yeah, he probably _shouldn_ 't do something this big after thinking about it for two seconds. But there's no one to tell him what not to do, so he says an adamant "what the hell" to himself and goes for it - cheesy as it is.

He clears his throat a bit.

"You can't seriously expect me to pick a wife when I haven't finished interviewing all of the possible candidates yet."

There's an excited expectancy in his voice that she should pick up on, but her brow just furrows as she flicks through the stack of profiles. "What are you talking about? There's thirty here. We didn't have thirty-one. I don't miscount."

"You didn't. See, there's this girl that I've been thinking about as a possible candidate since before this whole thing started, but I never had the courage to bring it up."

Sabrina's quick. He can't play cute games with her, 'cause her blue eyes suddenly lock onto his and her cheeks lose a little color. He thinks he can hear her stomach drop, but that's probably his own.

Cautious, Sabrina closes the stack of profiles. "Does this girl have a name?"

"No. I'm in love with an anonymous person. I have her shoe though, if that's any consolation."

"Puck, stop. I feel like this is you trying to lead up to propose to me, and if that's what you're doing then… don't waste your breath."

… Oh.

That's …

…

Oh.

Her words paralyze him. To say he feels like he's been slapped is too generous. Really, he feels like someone dropped the bottom of the floor out and he's falling. His face is already hot with the embarrassment his mind has barely begun to register.

She continues. "A couple of years ago, I would've married you without a second thought. Up until a few months ago, I was considering quitting this job and looking for other employment because I didn't want to spend another day with you. Now… Now I don't know. I mean, I know what I've felt in the past, but we've got a lot of issues. I can't just up and marry you. Not after all of… well, _everything_. You get that, right?"

"Of course. That's… yeah." He gets it better than he wants to. "It's sort of better this way, I guess."

His hand moves to the files, slides them closer to himself. "Right." His voice is a lot quieter as he tries to keep his tone light. "So, Juliet was-"

Her small hand gently pushes the papers down and out of his grip. He stares at her fingers, not at her face, when she speaks.

"I'm not saying not ever. I'm saying… can we take time on this? Can we get to know each other again? It's been six years since I last felt like I knew you better than I knew myself. I think we can get back to that… I _need_ to get back to that before we do anything crazy."

"Oh."

It's the only thing he can say. Because Sabrina definitely just turned down his almost-marriage proposal by saying "idk, maybe later?" and he's not sure how many times this has happened in the history of the world, but it's hella awkward. Maybe awkward sums them up better than anything.

She tilts her head just a bit as she looks at him. Her eyes are kind. Reassuring. She has faith that they can restore them back to where they used to be.

No, not where they used to be. Stronger than that.

His mouth pulls into a smile.

She smiles back as well, a little unsure. "... Is that okay?"

"Yes!" He grabs her hand. "I'd… yes. That sounds…" He just nods, still smiling, incandescent.

"Good." She intertwines her fingers with his.

"Good."

She starts to collect the papers across the desk, but he stops her, holding both of her hands and fully turning her chair towards his.

"So, we're dating again?" He asks it like a child inquiring about what he's getting for Christmas, and he pushes his tongue against his teeth as he smiles like a dork.

She seems to ponder this, her thumbs rubbing small circles into his hand like it's second nature.

"Yeah, let's call it dating."

"So I can stop it with all of this wife-hunt business?"

"Please," she laughs. "Please stop it. You have no idea how much it was killing me."

He nods, rolling his chair just a bit closer to her as he pulls her in.

"So, does this mean I can kiss you?"

She gives him a look. "You realize that we have to talk about things, right? We can't just make out."

"Not _just_ , but…" he waggles his eyebrows, and she jams her left foot into his right shin playfully.

"Pervert."

He laughs, not even really going to protest, but then she's breathing him into a kiss. His hands wrap around her waist tightly, like he has to keep her where she is. Her fingers are tangling in his hair, and it's soft, and chaste, and _right_.

 _End_.

* * *

 **A/N: My goal was to balance this story out with a good amount of humor. When I wrote the line about Puck being a sappy maple tree, for some reason the mental picture was _hilarious_ and I let out this ugly laugh that earned me odd looks from the other people in Starbucks. 'Cause he's a shape-shifter! Trees are probably in his repertoire! He could be a tree! _He could be any tree._**

 **Would anyone else be interested in seeing this from Sabrina's point of view? I'm so tempted to write one more chapter, but I don't know if a POV switch is worth the time. If you're interested, though, review and let me know so I can get typing!**

 **Personally, it felt right to tease out Puck's psyche a bit. I mean, the kid has been alive long enough to call it forever, and he's lived through some awful things. Humans go through depression and anxiety all the time and we only live for 90 years on average. Everafters either have amazing psychiatrists, or they have some skeletons in their closet that don't often get dealt with. It made sense to me that Puck could be harboring some stuff deep down.  
**

 **What can I say? I like my fictional men damaged.**

 **But tell me what you think! Of the characters, of the back-story, of the writing... whatever you like.**

 **It would be _so_ awesome if you reviewed. No pressure or anything but the box is _right there_. **


End file.
